


Wait for it

by Loftec



Series: Wait for it [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”The fuck are you still waiting for, Ian?”</p><p> </p><p>Changed the rating to Mature, for more mentions of abuse, drug use, and attempted suicide. And you know, profuse amount of swearing? Enjoy.</p><p>Post season five, events leading up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5493554/chapters/12691499">Three</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5311319">Two for one</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5331542">Awake</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5489021">Tell Me</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fiona

”Fi?” Fiona starts awake at the distant voice calling her name. ”You there?”

”Up here,” she croaks and rubs at her bleary eyes. Fuck, she’d only intended to close her eyes for a second and looking at her watch she’s realizing it ended up being more like half an hour. She clears her throat and is about to call out again, louder, before changing her mind and instead drags herself out of Liam’s freshly made and now re-crumpled bed. She casts a glance at the still sleeping child in the old rickety crib and grabs the baby-monitor before stepping out the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

”Where’s Liam?” Lip greets her when she steps down the stairs, joining him in the kitchen.

”Good to see you too, asshole,” she smiles and ruffles his curls when she gets close enough, passing him where he stands with his nose in the open fridge.

”You know Shany’s alone in the living room?” he says, giving up on the fridge to focus on her as she washes her hands and starts on dinner.

”I know, Lip,” she sighs, ”she’s fine, stop worrying so goddamned much.”

”Where _is_ Liam?” he asks again, his tone less pointed now and more curious. She can handle that.

”With Kev and the kids,” she says and glances over at her brother with a thankful smile, the small smirk she gets in return is Lip for ’you’re welcome’, ”said they were gonna go to the park, so they’re probably next door makin’ sure Liam’s gonna have nightmares tonight with some scary ass movie.”

Lip chuckles and nods in agreement. ”How’s Ben?” 

It’s the same thing every week, he comes home and the inquisition starts, paranoid and on the cusp of accusing her of all sorts of shit at first and then quickly trying to cover it up by doing the rounds, making sure to ask about all the kids one at a time. 

”He’s great, sleeping,” Fiona moves over to the fridge to dig out two onions, pointing at the prepared chopping board, ”get to work.”

Lip nods and catches the onion she lobs at him, puts it down on the counter before he picks up the knife. ”And Ian?”

She closes the fridge and opens her mouth to answer, rolling the second onion thoughtfully in her hands, when she’s interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. ”You expecting anyone?”

”Nope,” Lip shrugs and splits his onion in half, not looking up at her when she places the other one next to him and leaves the kitchen.

”How you doing, kiddo?” Fiona asks with a wide smile, walking past the sofa and scratching fondly at the dark ruffle of hair barely sticking up over the back of it. Shan doesn’t say anything, but keeps her eyes glued to the black and white documentary playing on their battered old TV.

There’s another hard knock at the door before Fiona’s made it all the way over there, prompting her to sprint the last few feet through the room.

”There a war on or something?” she asks as she swings the door open, wide smile slipping off her face in an instant, ”holy fuck.”

Mickey looks back at her, same unimpressed raise to his eyebrows he’s always had, wearing a heavy coat like she remembers him. It’d been cold back then too, winter? Fall, maybe. His hair is slicked back and trimmed the same, but not as tight, looser now. Heavy set lines under his eyes that she doesn’t remember, paler than she ever saw him. But it’s Mickey and she never really thought she’d see him again.

”Jesus,” she says when he remains silent, takes a deep drag off his cigarette and half turns to flick it out towards the street. She can feel her mouth tugging back into a wide and genuine grin and without thinking she takes a step forward and moves to grab him, pull him into a warm embrace. There’s a flash of panic through his eyes that stops her mid-grab, though, so she lets him take a step back and smiles at him as he defensively folds his arms across his chest. ”No, ’course, sorry. No need for the touchy feely stuff, gotcha, how- well, why-?”

”You gonna invite me in or just stand there and stammer all day?” Mickey complains when Fiona puts her hands to her hips and takes a moment to take in the sight of him. 

”’Course, come on in,” she says, stepping to the side and gesturing for him to enter, ”never used to knock, Mickey, ’scuse me if this is kinda new.”

”Used to be family,” Mickey mutters as he steps inside and Fiona isn’t sure if she was meant to hear it. She dips her head to hide the smile she’s not quite successful in suppressing, watches her brother’s ex move to stand awkwardly in the living room.

”Come on, kiddo,” she says cheerfully, truly enjoying the startled look on Mickey’s face when he for a second thinks she’s talking to him, ”stop watching that stuff and come help us out in the kitchen, huh?”

She walks past Mickey and around the couch, bends down to grab the remote from Shan’s loose grip. The girl sighs but doesn’t protest, instead she slips off the soft seat and lets Fiona usher her towards the kitchen. Fiona deliberately leaves Mickey on his own, hoping he hasn’t changed too much in that regard, that she still knows how to make it a little easier for him to relax in their home. He’d always come in like a ball of nerves, like a cautious alley cat, expecting to be thrown back out again at any second. So she’d kinda started treated him like a cat, left him alone for a while, held off with the questions and attention until he wound down some. A little condescending perhaps, but it’d been tried and tested and it seems to still have the desired effect. She can tell he’s slowly trailing up behind her when she walks out into the kitchen.

”How about you set the table, Shany-shan,” Fiona suggests, leading the child over to the cupboards to take the plates down for her.

”Who was it?” Lip asks, back turned to her where he’s on the second onion, chopping it down to small pieces. 

”Got some company for dinner,” she says, glancing at the doorway to see Mickey carefully lingering there, ”I hope?”

”Came to see Ian,” Mickey says, causing Lip to turn around so abruptly he almost cuts himself. Fiona lets herself have another quick look in Mickey’s direction before she counts out the right amount of plates, plus one, and puts them down on the counter. She thinks he looks uncertain, yet more sure in himself than she’s ever seen him. She likes it, adulthood looks good on him. Always kinda had a soft eye for the kid, a little lost and untethered like the rest of them. Liked that he’d thought of her as family once, even though she’d not been present enough back then to really appreciate it.

”Figured as much,” she says and smiles at Lip’s dumbstruck expression, ”he’ll be around later. You’re staying, right?”

”He still lives here?” Mickey asks, sounding doubtful. ”Thought I’d just stop by, get his fucking address or whatever.”

”Well, you’ve got it,” she nods, handing the first plate over the counter to Shan who carefully takes it in both her hands to carry it over to the table.

”Mickey,” Lip finally greets him, apparently finding his voice but not so much the words.

”Philip,” Mickey on his end doesn’t seem lost for anything, ”how’s college?”

”Over,” Lip grins, which surprises Fiona greatly, ”how’s prison?”

”Over,” Mickey shrugs, ”you wanna compare and contrast?”

”Think you’re probably gonna win that one,” Lip snorts and turns back around to gather the onion bits into a more orderly pile.

”Yeah, that’s what I am,” Mickey nods, ”a real fucking winner.”

”Must've done something right,” Lip shrugs and crouches down to dig out a skillet and their whole-family-home-for-pasta sized pot, ”didn’t expect to see you around for another, what? Two, three years at the very least?”

”What’s your name?” Shan has finished placing out all the plates and walked over to Mickey, staring up at him with her big dark eyes. 

”Uh,” he says, crossing his arms and doing that slight shuffle with his feet Fiona thinks she’s seen before, ”it’s Mickey.”

”Mickey, I’ll show you to your seat,” she decides with no room for discussion, tugging at his sleeve to get him to uncross his arms and take her hand. Fiona presses her lips together as she watches her niece lead a slightly baffled Mickey over to one of the seats, where Carl usually sits when he’s home, and commands him to sit down.

Mickey raises his eyebrows at her but doesn’t argue, he just holds up his hands in defeat and takes a seat, coat still on.

Lip’s got the water boiling on the stove, and the onions sizzling in the skillet, so Fiona grabs some canned tomatoes and rifles through the drawers to find the can opener.

”You just got out?” Lip breaks the comfortable lull in conversation, voice unusually careful.

”While back,” Mickey sighs, eyes on Shan when she comes back around from behind the kitchen counter, hands full of cutleries, ”who’s the kid?”

”Saoirse,” Fiona says and laughs when Mickey screws up his face in pain at the name, ”hey, you’re in no position to complain.”

She knows she shouldn’t have said it before it’s even halfway out her mouth, but can’t stop herself. She knows how much Ian misses Yevgeny, can tell even though he’s never said as much, she can’t even imagine how Mickey’s feeling about the whole thing. She makes a face and is about to apologize when Mickey cuts her off.

”I didn’t name him,” he mutters, not looking too shook up over her indelicacy, ”she yours?”

”No,” Fiona smiles, makes a funny face over at Shan’s concentrated effort, carefully placing every knife and fork like she’s been taught by her grandmother, ”Debbie’s, we all thought it cute when she started looking up Irish names but I guess we didn’t think that one through, letting her decide all on her own. You can call her Shan, or Shany, makes life a little easier.”

”Cute?” Mickey ignores her introduction to focus on her earlier offhanded remark, avoids looking at Shan who carries on like they’re not talking about her, all of her focus on her task, ”sounds like an absolute fucking shit-show to me. Jesus, what the fuck happened here?”

Fiona frowns and opens her mouth to defend her family, pausing when she realizes that this is Mickey and even though she never bothered to properly get to know the boy, or the man, she would’ve had to have been blind not to see how he cared for Ian. How he begrudgingly and wholeheartedly accepted the entirety of Ian’s family as his own about as soon as he did Ian. She imagines that that kinda stuff doesn’t go away for someone like Mickey, that the anger in his voice now comes from a place of worry, of concern. 

”Debs got pregnant,” Lip answers for her when Mickey turns his impatient glare from Fiona to her brother, who apparently has no issue with cluing him in with a quick recap, ”at fourteen. Lied about it, had a kid. Boyfriend fucked off, couldn’t deal. Debs checked out, Fi stepped up.”

She can feel his eyes on the side of her face, feels the weight of the details he’s choosing to leave out. She hadn’t stepped up, she’d fucked up. Again, and again, and then again when she’d really fucking tired not to. Fucked up so bad she’d thought it couldn’t have gotten any worse. And then it got worse. With Ian in the hospital and Debbie at long last grasping the reality of her mistakes, Fiona finally felt like she couldn’t take any more of it. That there were no other option than to claw her way back on top of things, reset her fucking priorities. Family, home, food. Survive.

”Got another one upstairs,” Lip continues, shaking Fiona out of her thoughts, ”not Debbie’s and pretty much almost planned for, so, you know. Progress.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything at that, just shakes his head and rests his elbows on the table, picking absentmindedly at his nails as he glances back at Shan, follows her movements around the table with a kind of softness Fiona remembers well, the very same that had struck her once as a real surprise.

”Why is he still livin’ here?” He suddenly asks, sounding almost like he hadn’t meant to, at least not out loud.

Fiona shrugs, likes this part. ”Because he’s needed here, he helps out with the kids. With the bills. Takes care of his family.”

Mickey nods. ”He alone?” 

”I think he’s waiting for something,” Fiona looks over at Lip who makes no effort to hide how wildly he’s rolling his eyes at her.

”Where is Ian, anyway?” Lip asks, submerging the dry spaghetti and placing the dented lid on top.

”Out with Tod, I think,” Fiona knows how she’s sounding right now, like a mom who’s really intent on seeing her kid back together with his ex, downplaying whatever’s going on with any potential competition, ”should be home any minute, you know he doesn’t miss Sunday dinner, especially not when you’re here, your highness.”

”Right,” Lip huffs, ”sure.”

Fiona looks up at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Mickey gets up, walks over to the back door and then back again. Paces the length of the kitchen once, twice, before he stops to stand awkwardly in the middle of it. Closer to a quick escape than anything else.

”He doing okay?” he asks, peering up at Lip and Fiona through furrowed brows, daring them to sugarcoat or squirm.

”Yeah, Mickey,” Fiona says and nods with all the conviction she’s got, ”sure, yeah he’s doing good. Takin’ care of himself. It’s been real good, last couple of years.”

Mickey nods too, hands at his hips and eyes on the floor. Fiona wants to tell him it’s because of him, that it’s because of Mickey that Ian’s doing anything at all. But she doesn’t know that for sure, doesn’t know a whole lot about her brother’s inner life when it comes right down to it. Ian’s always been unwilling to share anything, especially with her, and after everything that happened at the time of his diagnosis he became even more tight-lipped. It had been a real hard time and she hadn’t been particularly helpful to anyone, she can see and admit to that now, and much of it had fallen on Lip’s reluctant shoulders. She also knows when it started to turn around, can pinpoint the time when they all hit rock bottom and when something definitely changed for Ian, signaling a greater shift towards the better for the whole Gallagher clan. 

She knows that Ian went to see Mickey around that same time, and she thinks she knows where Ian got most of his motivation, his strength, to get through some of the worst he’s ever been. But it’s not her place to say, not her place to assume. She could have gotten it all wrong. It could be too late. Some things do change.

”Why are you here, Mickey?” Lip asks, ignoring Fiona’s warning glare.

”Not our business, Lip,” Fiona tries to sound cheerful, smiling over at Mickey who looks about ready to bolt, ”hey, how’s Mandy doin’?”

”’Cause if you’re just here to stir shit up,” Lip’s got that lazy drawl to his voice he still can’t help when he’s trying to downplay how much he really cares, ”gotta tell you to back off and leave it alone.”

Mickey shifts a little, seems to unconsciously plant his feet, and thumbs at his nose before he crosses his arms. Fiona imagines that stuff coming off as pretty intimidating back in the day, even though he’d just been a teenager at the time. There’s an added layer to it now, and even though she doesn’t like the thought pushing at her mind, not one bit, she can’t help thinking that part of the old Mickey is gone, and part of the new one standing in her kitchen is all ex-con. Dangerous, damaged. All sweetness gone from his face as he levels Lip with a firm glare.

Mickey always was a lotta surface, she reminds herself. Always had layer upon layer of defense and attitude, keeping everyone at bay. That is, until Ian fought himself through and insisted on there being something else underneath all that. Being thrown back in prison like that, all of Mickey’s walls must have shot right back up, thicker and stronger than before. Ian’s sudden change of heart not helping much either, she’d imagine.

She scrambles for something to say to defuse the situation, not looking to have an all out brawl wreck her already fairly broken kitchen. 

”Let’s just have a nice dinner, okay?” She can feel that her smile is too wide, too tense, to really be of any use at all. ”Let Mickey and Ian talk it out when he gets here, alright?”

”Somehow I don’t think it’s likely talking’s high on the agenda,” Lip scoffs, breaking away from Mickey’s glare pretending to look for something in the cupboard behind him, ”might remember it all rosy, Fi, ’cause fucking and fighting was about all they ever did to resolve their issues back when. I’m not interested in lettin’ Ian get sucked back into that.”

Fiona glances at Mickey who hasn’t moved one inch, face still set in stone, before she looks at Lip with something she hopes comes across as equal parts imploring and scolding. There must have been more to it, she thought she had understood her brother’s relationship with Mickey once, seen it for what it was when all it looked like was Ian spiraling and Mickey growing increasingly desperate to fix him, fix them. Seen the wild look on Mickey’s face, standing in the Milkovich kitchen, insisting he’d earned the right to call himself Ian’s family.

And she’s seen Ian’s empty stare at night when the kids have been put to bed, whole big house quiet, and he’s sitting next to her on the couch, his eyes not quite on the TV. When it takes him a few seconds to return to reality after she nudges his elbow. ’You okay, kiddo?’ she’d ask, and he’d always give her the same kind of crooked Mona-Lisa smile and reply. ’Just thinking, Fi,’ he’d say, and she’d leave it alone. Pick up his hand to kiss the back of it, or grab at his hair and press one to his temple. Think that he was a lot like her, in some ways. In the way he loved.

She thinks she’s seen all of it, over time pieced together enough of it to understand that Ian had invested his all in Mickey, once, and Mickey had done the same. She thinks Lip _knows_ all of this, probably better than her since he’s always had Ian’s complete confidence in a way she doesn’t. She wonders if she should be wary of Mickey’s return, but she can’t get herself to believe it. To un-imagine that Mickey had been really good for her brother once, could have been really good for him if Ian hadn’t been so lost and Mickey hadn’t ended up behind bars.

”It’s not-” Mickey’s voice is quiet, fills the room entirely and leaves it dead silent when he cuts off and snaps his eyes to the sound of the door opening at the other end of the house.

”Ian’s home!” Shan announces sternly and runs out the room, leaving Lip and Fiona to glance at each other before more or less sitting back to enjoy the show. Lip shrugging at her when she gives him an extra glare as if to tell him to stay the fuck out of it.

”Hey, munchkin,” they hear Ian in the other room, groaning when he picks her up like he always does. ”You’re so heavy, you made out of stone?”

”No,” she giggles, ”just people stuff.”

”That so,” Fiona smiles at the sound of their soft voices and keeps her eyes on Mickey, looking if possible even paler than before, ”Fi and uncle Lip here?”

”In the kitchen,” she hears Shan inform him, their voices growing stronger by the second as they’re crossing the living room, ”with Mickey.”

The silence settling in the other room is palpable, and judging by the deepening scowl on Mickey’s face and the way he visibly flinches, he’s bound to be staring right at Ian, sees him look up and find him there. Standing in their home after seven long years.

The floorboards protest when Ian steps across the threshold and joins them in the kitchen, Shan in a tight grip on his hip. Fiona puts a hand to her mouth to keep an involuntary sound from escaping the back of her throat, not wanting to disturb the scene unfolding in front of her.

”What-,” Ian says, voice uncertain and his profile set and almost looking void of emotion, eyes locked on Mickey while he slowly lets Shan slip from his arms and down to stand next to him, holding on to his sleeve, ”what are you-”

He cuts himself off when Mickey spreads out his arms, like a question. Picks up his eyebrows and presses his lips together as his hands fall down his sides, stares at Ian for a moment before he breaks the silence.

”The fuck are you still waiting for, Ian?”

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a public service announcement: I will continue writing both this series and my other WIP, but with a slight shift of parameters. This is just me letting you know that while I try to follow canon for this series (and while my other fic, albeit an AU, also follows canon in its own special way) my writing is henceforth officially canon* compliant. 
> 
> * Up until and including 5x12.
> 
> Been thinking of maybe writing out some non-fic thoughts on Shameless and post as a kind of author's note for this series, if anyone'd be interested in reading something like that? 
> 
> FF af, guys. Happy new year.


	2. Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals more directly with previously mentioned heavy stuff. So this is me warning you about further mentions of abuse, heavy drugs, and attempted suicide.

Ian looks down at his hands, fidgeting on the table in front of him. Clasping together, unclasping, re-clasping. They suddenly look very pale and thin to him, now, and he can’t remember the last time he saw himself in a mirror. Has he changed? Does he look as much as a wreck as he feels? He sighs and unclasps his hands again, brings one up to shield his eyes from the unrelenting white lights.

The lady in the booth next to him has a shrill voice, she’s saying nice things; promising things, loving things, but just the sound of it grates at Ian, puts him on edge. He doesn’t want to be here, in this room. He never wanted any of this.

He flinches at a sharp thud against the plexiglas in front of him and he looks up, startled. Not at all ready to face the man on the other side. Mickey looks cautiously hostile, still standing up but with the phone in his hand, hanging by his side after he’s used it to stir Ian from his thoughts.

Ian swallows convulsively and tries to find Mickey’s eyes through the glass, but the bare ceiling lights glare and reflect angrily in just the wrong places, shielding Mickey from view. Ian slowly takes his receiver from the hook and puts it to his ear, waits for Mickey to sit down. Hopes against hope that he will.

He does. 

”Jesus,” Ian breathes when Mickey lowers himself down in his seat, into view. Eyes darting from side to side, elbows on the table. Receiver still held at a safe distance. He looks bad, real fucking bad. Ian’s seen bad on Mickey before, but not like this. Thin in a way that doesn’t look natural, pasty grey, dark circles under his eyes. There’s a couple of old cuts and bruises too, adding some sickly yellows and purples. One showing over his collar, seems to cover his whole neck, one fading around his left eye.

Ian keeps his eyes on him, wills himself not to move or break until Mickey eventually looks down for a moment, sighing deeply, and finally shifts his cautious glare to Ian. Ian tries to smile, but his eyes are so wet and his mouth so twisted he doubts he’s even remotely successful.

”Fuck, Mick,” he says, knowing Mickey still can’t hear him. He doesn’t want to be here, never wanted to be here. Mickey frowns and puts the phone to his ear.

”You okay?” he says and Ian could cry, just hearing his voice. He doesn’t, instead he lets out a wet laugh and wipes at his face when Mickey’s frown deepens.

”Look at you,” Ian mumbles, eyes on the table, tentatively on Mickey through his eyelashes, tries to shield himself from the sight of him, can’t quite look away from him. ”I tried to come before, but they said you were in um-, in intensive care.”

”Yeah,” Mickey sighs and scoots his elbows closer to his body in a kind of hug, or like he wants to cross his arms, ”sorry.”

OD. Two letters, that’s all they’d told him. Ian had been here last weekend, shirt ironed and hair combed. Hands literally shaking he was so nervous. He’d signed in, and he’d waited. Took almost an hour for someone to come out and tell him it wasn’t gonna happen. ’Why not?’ Ian had asked, frowning, thinking this was it. Mickey was done, Ian was too late. ’OD’ the guard had said, eyes on his clipboard and a shrug to his shoulder, ’got him in intensive care last night, should have his visitation rights restored by this time next week if he survives’.

Guy probably deserved to at least be reported, but Ian didn’t even protest his callousness. Hardly even noticed his presence, or his leaving.

Ian hadn’t known about the drugs. Didn’t know about the bruises or the cuts. Ian didn’t know anything.

”Tell me it was an accident,” he says, voice low and pleading. He looks up at Mickey again when he doesn’t get an answer. Really looks at him, eyes stuck on his exhausted face, tracing every line of it.

”You tell me,” Mickey starts, sounds like he’s having a hard time getting the words out, ”you tell me it was a fucking accident.”

Ian never had a pokerface, and he guesses that the horrified expression he’s got flashing across his face now is more than enough to confirm whatever it is Mickey thinks he knows.

”How-,” Ian starts, but has to look away when Mickey’s eyes tear up. He doesn’t want to be here. He never wanted this.

Mickey sighs and wipes at his eyes, and when he looks at Ian again, he’s got that blank expression back. Ian knows it very well, knows it for what it is.

”Iggy was here,” Mickey tells him, eyes darting away again before settling somewhere on Ian’s chest, ”told me about it.”

”Mick,” Ian whispers intently, tries to scoot himself closer to the glass, bending over the table digging into his stomach, ”Mick, you gotta listen to me, it had nothing to do with you, alright?”

Mickey leans back in his chair, like he’s trying to get some distance. Like the fucking plastic wall isn’t distance enough. He angles the receiver away from his ear and still doesn’t look at Ian’s searching eyes.

”Fuck, Mick,” Ian begs, ”listen to me.”

Mickey casts his eyes down on the table and takes a moment before wordlessly turning the phone back so he can hear what Ian has to say. 

”I thought about you, yeah, think about you all the time, but that wasn’t-,” Ian swallows and tries to find the right words to explain something that truly doesn’t make a lot of sense, after the fact, ”don’t want you thinkin’ I’d do that to you, I was on a low, felt like I had nothing. If I’d thought of you then, really thought of you, that wouldn’t have been the case.”

”Can’t do nothing for you in here,” Mickey mutters, and Ian lets out a shaky breath at the low sound of his voice.

”Fucking ditto, Mick,” Ian rasps, and he’d laugh if he could. Would prefer it to the wrenching at his gut. ”But I’ll try, come here every week until you’re out, send you fucking letters if you want ’em.”

Mickey makes a face and doesn’t look up, rests his forehead in his free hand and shields his face from sight. ”She took Yev away.”

”What?”

Mickey looks up now and smiles, the worst smile Ian’s ever seen. 

”Not my kid, turns out,” he shrugs, smile twisting into a dismissive turn before his features once again fall into that tired non-expression, ”free man.”

”Fucking bullshit he’s not your kid,” Ian whispers, trying in vain to get Mickey to meet his imploring eyes, ”we’ll fight it.”

If Mickey noticed his slip-up, he doesn’t mention it. Ian knows he never had any claim on Yevgeny but that doesn’t mean he can stop himself from thinking of the child as his. Stop himself from saying ’we’.

”Forget it,” Mickey says, voice the most determined it’s been since he sat down, ”could be another eight fucking years, man, kid can do better.”

”No,” Ian tells him, hopes that he understands exactly what that means. 

”Whatever,” Mickey sighs and sits up straighter, ”the fuck are you even doing here, Ian?”

Ian takes a deep breath, collects himself. ”Wanna tell you I’m sorry, about last time.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, the slight shake of his head almost appears unconscious. Ian closes his eyes and tries not to get caught up in the memory of it, the confused embarrassment he’s feeling when his thoughts go there. He’d been talking, talking so much, making plans for shit even though he should have known that Mickey’s slowly progressing trial wasn’t looking good. Talked nonsense about breaking Mickey out, told him about guys, told him about what he’d been doing. He can remember most of it, but try as he might he can’t recall a single word of Mickey’s. Maybe he hadn’t said anything, Ian wouldn’t blame him. Maybe he’d gotten angry, maybe he’d cried. It’s awful, not remembering.

”Wasn’t fair,” Ian winces, ”was high and manic and didn’t- it wasn’t fair to you. Real stupid. Shouldn’t have been like that, didn’t want-”

”Is what it is,” Mickey mumbles, ”you’re fucking forgiven. That all?”

”No,” Ian takes another breath, feels like it’s doing very little to help, ”I lo-”

He cuts himself off when Mickey holds the receiver away from his ear, far enough for him to not have to hear the rest of that sentence. Hard eyes accusing. Ian snaps his mouth shut and nods.

”Don’t get to say it,” Mickey tells him, phone back to his ear. Ian nods again and rubs at his nose, feels it sting with everything he’s not saying. He hides his mouth behind his hand and he says it, shapes his mouth around the words. Mickey can’t hear him, but he says it. Should have said it so many times.

”I’ll wait,” he says instead, tries to keep his voice steady.

”Fuck, Ian,” Mickey groans and slumps back in his seat.

”No, listen,” Ian insists, ”don’t have to believe me, got no reason to. But I will. Wait. I will.”

”Don’t fucking lie to me,” Mickey’s eyes are jittery and shiny, avoiding Ian in favor of the stains covering the partitioner to their left. The shrill voice of the woman on the other side of it still droning on in the background, Ian had forgotten all about her.

”I’m done,” Ian smiles a little, eyes on Mickey’s torn face, ”tried to forget you. I’m poison, Mick, and I fucked up real bad.”

”Ey,” Mickey looks at him now, but the blazing in his eyes is a shadow of what it used to be, ”fuck you. Never fucking thought you were poison, Ian, fuck you for sayin’- don’t fucking want you thinking shit like that.”

Ian ducks his head and nods. He knows how it sounds, self-pitying and like he’s trying to make himself a martyr. It’s not what he wants, he only wants to accept blame where he sees it due. Wants to say he’s sorry. Doesn’t want to be here.

”Alright, I take back the poisonous part,” he says and smiles again, tries, when he meets Mickey’s eyes, ”just an asshole.”

”Well,” Mickey tries too, ”already knew that.”

Ian wants to laugh so badly, but he knows it’s just gonna come out like a fucking wail. Might just as well break down sobbing like a child. Mickey doesn’t need any of that right now. 

”So,” he says, wetting his lips nervously, ”I’m just another asshole, making your life hell. Telling you I’ll wait, ’cause I wanna wait for you, Mick.”

Mickey stares at him, says nothing. Ian makes the most out of it and tries to make his feelings clear even without the persuasive powers of his hands, of his lips. He’d always used the physical stuff to try and get Mickey to understand and now he feels like he’s falling flat, his words not nearly enough.

”Only seein’ you now to make sure you’re all in one piece,” Mickey breaks eye contact and sniffles casually, but Ian can see it in the crease between his brows and in the twist of his mouth that he’s struggling to keep himself in check, ”didn’t trust Ig for shit when he said you were fine.”

Ian grips the receiver tight, the shell of his ear burning with the pressure. Ignores Mickey’s attempt at wrapping up the conversation.

”Part of me has always waited for you, Mick,” he tells him and hopes it’s taken for what it is, as a statement of truth and not a harsh reminder of how things used to be, ”couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.”

”Don’t come here again,” Mickey says like an exhale of breath, squeezing his eyes shut, ”can’t do it. Don’t come here again.”

He hangs up and Ian watches as he scrambles to his feet. Imagines he can hear the sound of the chair scraping across the concrete floor. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to be home. 

”Hey munchkin,” he says and bends down to grab his niece under the arms and hoist her up, holds her close. ”You’re so heavy, you made out of stone?”

He changes his grip and bounces her a little, a habit from when she was a baby and didn’t like being alone, didn’t like being still.

”No,” she giggles when he nudges her nose with his own, ”just people stuff.”

”That so,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her to let her know he doesn’t quite believe her, ”Fi and uncle Lip here?”

”In the kitchen,” she reports, making his steps turn that way with more confidence, ”with Mickey.”

Ian stops, one foot in the air. He sets it down, slowly, staring at her innocent face. She doesn’t know anything about Mickey, they don’t know any other Mickey, she never makes shit like that up, for no reason. He tears his eyes from her and looks across the room and into the bright kitchen. It makes no sense.

Mickey flinches when Ian sees him, fucking flinches. Like he’s got reason to be surprised. He looks angry, but that doesn’t mean anything. He looks good, but that doesn’t mean much either. Other than the most obvious thing; Mickey’s alive. Mickey’s fine. Mickey’s here. Mickey’s here.

He feels like he’s forgotten how to use his legs, stepping into the kitchen is so slow going. He keeps his eyes on Mickey like he’s a mirage, doesn’t chance him disappearing by giving him even a split second’s opportunity to do so. He feels his arms loosen their grip on Shan, feels her slide down his side and stand next to him, hold on to his sleeve.

”What-,” he croaks, fuck he sounds like an idiot, ”what are you-”

He cuts himself off when Mickey spreads out his arms, like a question. Picks up his eyebrows and presses his lips together as his hands fall down his sides. The weight of the gesture very clear to Ian. Knows that this is how Mickey looks when he’s laying his life down, for him.

”The fuck are you still waiting for, Ian?”

Last time Mickey made him feel like this, he knew exactly what to do. Coat off, head first. He’s kinda wishing he had someone to hit now, someone to fight with; alongside Mickey, back him up, defend him. Show him. A sound to his right makes his eyes dart over to find Lip and Fiona standing there, looking like two very pleased meerkats. Lip smirking, arms crossed, Fiona’s eyes shining, hand to her mouth. He quickly looks back at Mickey, half expecting him to be gone, a treacherous part of him wishing he was. He’s not showered since yesterday, he’s been walking around all day with Tod’s stupid fucking dog, probably smells like one. He’s waited, fuck he’s waited for so long, why isn’t he prepared? 

Mickey’s here.

Ian picks up his hand to smooth it over Shan’s hair, make her let go of his sleeve. Then he can feel his legs kicking back into action and he hunches his shoulders as he walks up to Mickey, too fast, too close, and stops, tries to keep his breathing in check. It’s not working. He stares into Mickey’s eyes, glaring back at him with the same kind of apprehensive aggression he’s feeling right now, and it’s good. It looks like Mickey, it smells like Mickey. 

Without breaking eye contact, he steps around Mickey and makes him turn with him, a small smirk starting to show in the corner of his mouth. Ian takes a step back, then another one. He keeps his eyes locked on Mickey’s and steps backwards until he feels the door against his shoulder blades, the handle under his searching hand. 

Ian takes one last long look at Mickey standing in their kitchen and then he turns and walks out the house, breathing heavily in the cold air as he waits for the door to open again behind him.

It doesn’t take long, one or two seconds and Mickey’s there, stepping out to stand next to him.

”Could have called,” Ian points out, ”imagined this about a thousand times, never figured I’d forget how to- fuck.”

”What?” Mickey asks, sounds amused, and Ian closes his eyes at the sound. Lets out a shaky breath and smiles at the sound.

”Walk, talk, fucking breathe?” Ian huffs. ”I’d- I want- don’t even know why you’re here.”

”Thought that much was obvious,” Mickey mutters and crosses his arms, glances up at Ian when he turns and looks at him again, so close, ”came to see if you’re still waiting.”

”Six years.” Ian doesn’t know why he hasn’t kissed Mickey yet. Worried he’ll rush it, worries that Mickey’s here for something else. ”Why didn’t you tell me you were getting out?”

”Got out last year,” Mickey admits, raises his eyebrows when Ian can’t hide his hurt expression.

”Why-,” Ian swallows hard, tries to keep it out of his voice, ”what’s kept you?”

Mickey takes a step back and angles himself away, eyes on the ground.

”You know what it’s like to think about someone-,” he says, voice so low Ian barely catches it, ”think about someone every day for six years?”

”Yeah, Mick,” Ian nods, ”I do.”

Mickey glances back at him and Ian offers up a small smile.

”Yeah, well, you had options,” he says, ”me, all I had was you. Had to make sure.”

”Sure of what?”

”Make sure I’d survive this,” Mickey makes a face and scratches at his eyebrow with his thumb, ”seeing you, seeing you with some other guy, stand on that fucking porch again and have you tell me I got it all wrong.”

Ian shakes his head, but he can’t get the words out. ”And?”

”Don’t you fucking worry about me, Ian,” Mickey sighs, turns himself back to face Ian again, ”if you don’t want me, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll leave.”

Ian takes the two steps separating them, thinks he should have done this the second he laid eyes on Mickey, now that he’s got him here. Searching, shiny eyes all he can see, breath warm against his chin. 

”Please,” he mumbles, ”please don’t ever fucking leave me again.”

”Yeah?” Mickey smirks and Ian feels his body tingle with him taking that half a step closer, feels his warmth even through the layers of coats and sweaters. ”You gonna say it this time?”

Ian’s smile is wide and a long time coming, comes with tears stinging his nose and prickling in the corners of his eyes.

”Better fucking believe I will,” he nods and can’t help himself any longer, wraps his arms around Mickey and takes a moment just to breathe when he feels him brushing against his lips. ”I love you.”

Mickey grins into his desperate kiss and Ian thinks he’s never felt anything so fucking good before. Digs his fingers into the coarse fabric of Mickey’s coat, sighs at the feeling of cold hands trailing up his arms, graze his neck, dig into his hair.

Ian breaks the kiss and buries his face into Mickey’s neck, nuzzles against him and breathes in deeply. Still can’t believe it.

”Who’s Tod?” Mickey’s fingers are still combing through his hair, other arm firmly around Ian’s shoulders telling him he’s not going anywhere, but his voice has an edge to it. An uncertainty.

Ian laughs, feels so happy he could fucking burst, and he thinks it’s okay when he takes a step back. Knows this isn’t all it’s gonna be.

”A friend,” he says, ”hooked up once, just a friend now.”

Mickey’s hand moves from the back of his neck to gently rest against Ian’s cheek, his thumb slowly swiping at the wetness under his eye. Ian hadn’t even noticed, sniffs and lets go of Mickey to wipe at his tears with the back of his hand.

”I eh-,” he says and frowns, fucking hates himself for doing this, ”I haven’t exactly been a monk, while you were away.”

”Didn’t expect you to be,” Mickey looks hurt, despite his words, ”always shared you with other guys, anyway.”

”Yeah, no,” Ian shakes his head and catches Mickey by the arm when he tries to back off, keeps him as close as he can, other hand to his cheek, ”none of that, now. Never again.”

Mickey closes his eyes and sighs, nose bumping against Ian’s when he nods.

”You know what?” Ian has an idea, maybe it’s dumb as all hell, but he needs Mickey to believe he’s serious this time. Needs this to be done right. He takes out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, takes a step back to hold it between them, Tod’s picture facing up when he thumbs at the call button. He turns on the speakers and looks up at Mickey, smiles at his confused scowl as they listen to the dull tone ringing out.

 _”Yeah?”_ There’s a slight scuffle and the distant sound of honking on the other side. _”You forget something again?”_

”No,” Ian says and presses his lips together in thought, uncertain about what exactly it is he’s trying to do with this, ”I eh- someone was waiting for me when I got home.”

_”What’s that?”_

Ian doesn’t know. ”Could you please state for the record if I’m seeing anyone right now?”

_”The fuck is this, Ian?”_

Mickey’s raising his eyebrows at him now, part amused. Other part annoyed, Ian’s sure.

”Mickey’s here.”

There’s a long silence on the line, probably only a couple of seconds, but it kinda feels like forever.

 _”Fucking Mickey?”_ Tod asks, sounding very doubtful. _”Fucking love of your life, bane of my existence Mickey?”_

”Yeah,” Ian shrugs at Mickey, ”and we’re on speakerphone.”

_”Shit, really?”_

”Really.”

_”Mickey?”_

Mickey folds his arms over his chest and glares at Ian. Only about half an hour in and it’s already come to this, the glare. Ian tries to look as apologetic as possible as he nods at the phone.

Mickey sighs. ”Yeah?”

 _”Holy fuck,”_ Tod laughs, _”sorry about the ’bane of my existence’ thing, it’s not- well, it kinda is. This guy, thinks he’s all stoic and shit but Jesus fucking Christ, try as I might it all comes back to you. You remember Evan, Ian? I mean, sounds dumb when I say it now, Evan Ian, Ian Evan, but what an ass. God’s gift, I swear. But nope, not good enough. Didn’t last more than two fucking weeks. Nice face too!”_

”Yes,” Ian says and tries to take a step back, maybe turn off the speakerphone or throw the whole thing in the pool, when Mickey grabs his wrist and keeps him close, ”well-”

 _”Finn, Simon,”_ Tod continues, Ian feeling the panic rising in him until he looks up at Mickey and sees his wide grin, feels his gentle grip, _”I’m telling you Mickey, excellent boyfriend material all of them. I mean, you gotta be something else.”_

”Think I like this guy,” Mickey shrugs, ”and it sounds like maybe I should’ve shopped around a bit more before coming here, huh?”

_”Oh, I can totally help you with that! I think I’m gonna like you too, Mickey, we should get to-”_

Ian terminates the call and shoves his phone down the deepest darkest pocket he can find.

”You’re never meeting him,” Ian guarantees, ”in fact, pretty fucking sure he’s not my friend anymore.”

”Gonna tell me what that was all about?” Mickey’s voice is soft and Ian’s realizing that his hand’s still wrapped around his wrist, thumb moving gently over the numb scar tissue there.

”I didn’t know- I didn’t think-,” Ian’s scrunches his face up in frustration, wants to be better at this by now, ”didn’t- couldn’t always believe I’d get to see you again. I’m sorry.”

Mickey nods and squeezes Ian’s wrist a little, the pressure reassuring. ”My fault, didn’t wanna trap you in there with me.”

”This for real?” Ian asks, needs to know for sure. ”Gonna be you and me now?”

”Think so, yeah,” Mickey says and takes a step forward when Ian winces at his choice of words, ”never wanted anything else, Ian. Still don’t.”

”There’s so much I need to tell you,” Ian admits, words reluctant when Mickey presses closer into his space, ”we need to do this right.”

”We’ve got time,” Mickey tells him, like a promise.

Ian nods. Lets himself smile and forget about all the things pressing at them from the outside, for now. Takes a moment just to look at Mickey, feel him under his hands; his elbow, arm, chest, feels him breathing, tugs at his zipper. There’s a lot they’re gonna have to talk about, do right this time. There’s a lot Ian will have to tell Mickey, about before, about now. About him. It’s terrifying, but he finds solace in that he _wants_ to tell Mickey, this time. Wants Mickey to know.

Mickey touches his fingertips to Ian’s cheek and tells him to plant one on him before they have to go back inside, eat fucking spaghetti and make nice. A noise coming from the back of his throat Ian doesn’t remember when they kiss like they’ve been starving for the past seven years.

Ian will tell him everything.

Tell him that all he ever wanted was to go home. That Mickey is his home.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m exhausted. Think it’s gonna be coffee and movie references for the entirety of the remaining chapters of None the wiser. And then nothing dramatic ever happened. The end.
> 
> One or two quick things about the timeline, because I usually don’t get into specifics but I think I did so here just enough to confuse. Here, Mickey got 9 years (minimum penalty for attempted murder without intent, according to a source I found, but you know, the internet), Ian goes to see him at first a few months in (mentioned briefly), and then again at the start of this chapter about a year into his sentence. Mickey is paroled for good behaviour, and special circumstances, after 6 years in prison. He then takes his sweet time and doesn’t go see Ian until about a year later, which is why I go back and forth between mentioning their time apart as 6 and 7 years in the text. 
> 
> Next up in this series will be more Yevgeny. You're all amazing and I'd exhaust my dramatic well for you any day of the week.


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